Domestic - Orion

“It looks like soup,” Orion sighs, staring into his bowl with furrowed brows, “Really terrible soup.”

“It’s milk, honey, and yeast,” You say, amused, “We have to add other things to make dough. Otherwise…well, I guess it would be really terrible soup.”

He grunts, quietly looking at the murky liquid with discontent. You squeeze his arm gently, giving him a smile when he glances over at you.

“Add the flour first,” You instruct, “Then you can decide you hate baking.”

“I don’t hate it,” He defends himself, crossing his arms over his chest, “I’ve always wanted to try. I just fear I’ll never be good at making things.”

Your brows scrunch as you take in his words, moving to lean against the edge of the counter. It’s warm in the kitchen at present; the heat of the day combined with the fire of the stove makes for a sweltering environment. A few beads of sweat roll down Orion’s face, and he bats a stray hair away from his eyes once again.

“What do you mean?” You ask carefully.

He avoids your eyes, “I could never use magic. I cannot paint like my sister and father. Even when Kira tried to teach me to knit, I failed miserably. The only thing I’m good at seems to be destruction.”

War. That’s what he means. He’s only good at war. You purse your lips, not sure where to go from here. You take the cup of flour, pulling his bowl to be in reach, and carefully pour some in. Then, you reach for his arm, tugging him closer, and press the spoon into his hand.

“Now mix it,” You say.

He swallows, but does as you say. It’s slow to come together, as most things in baking are, and once all the flour has been added you show him how to knead the dough.

“You’ll be good at this part,” You say as you demonstrate, “What with your big muscles and all.”

You get an eye roll for that, but he’s smiling again. He kneads the dough for a good while, until you deem it finished. Then he tucks it in the little tin pan and you place a damp towel over the top.

“It’ll rise now,” You explain, “It looks more like a loaf after that.”

He nods, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Flour streaks across his tanned skin, stark and bright, and you can’t help but laugh.

“You’ve got a little…” You reach up with a towel, wiping the smear away, “There.”

His eyes soften as he leans down, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“Thank you,” He says quietly, “For being patient.”

Not just now, the words go unspoken. When you first met, when he was finished with life and the world, when he was angry at the cards he’d been dealt. When you thought he was a monster and he thought you a fool.

“You waited for me, too.” You brush his hair away this time, “You always have.”

“That’s different,” He denies, but lets you pull him in for a kiss regardless.

His lips are chapped and his hands callused as his thumb runs along the line of your jaw. When you pull away, you rest your forehead against his as he caresses the small of your back with a firm hand.

“If you can’t love someone when they’re yeast milk, you shouldn’t act like you deserve them when they’re a fresh loaf of bread.” You say sagely.

“That…makes no sense.” He blinks slowly, “Yeast milk?”

“The terrible soup!” You pout, “The joke isn’t funny when I have to explain it.”

“Then your jokes are never funny.”

He chuckles, far too proud of himself when you smack his chest with a huff.